


The Long Con

by sariagray



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you going back to him?” “I came back for you.” Jack has known all along. Post "The House of the Dead."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Con

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by analineblue.

**Gwen** : You okay?  
 **Jack** : Yeah.  
 **Gwen** : Did it work?  
 **Jack** : Traveled all sorts of places. This planet is too small. The whole world is like a graveyard.  
 **Gwen** : Come back with us.  
 **Jack** : Haven't traveled far enough yet. Got a lot of dirt to shake off my shoes. And right now, there's a cold-fusion cruiser surfing the ion reefs just at the edge of the solar system, just waiting to open its transport dock.

* * *

  
The light in Ianto’s room is dim; a small table lamp on his nightstand give off a soft, yellow glow. It has been left on to perpetuate the fantasy that Ianto will finally get through at least the first chapter of the novel he’d been attempting to read for the past three months. He’d gotten through a paragraph a day, at most, during Jack’s disappearance, and then Jack had returned looking weary and uncertain. That had been almost a week ago. Ianto hasn’t picked up the book since.

Instead he is sprawled, almost completely passed out, on the mattress, shirtless but still wearing his trousers, the belt partially removed so that the heavy buckle dangles over the side of the bed. He is awake enough to know that he’ll be uncomfortable if he doesn’t finish changing, but so close to blissful sleep that he can’t find a reason to care.

Warm hands tug at his hips and he hears the clink of metal on wood as his belt falls away. His trousers are slipped off, too, and he moans when the cool air hits his legs. There is a series of clicks, a muttered curse, and the red light behind Ianto’s eyelids fades to a beautiful, sweet black.

“Shhh, sleep.”

Ianto tries to nod, but his head isn’t working properly. There isn’t really a need to acknowledge, anyway. The mattress shifts and dips, an arm tightens around his chest, and Ianto settles back against the warm body.

Lips press against the back of his head and Ianto snuffles into his pillow. The bed shifts again and Ianto’s fingers fly to grasp the hand that rests, fingers splayed, above his stomach.

“Stay,” Ianto murmurs and those lips return to the back of his head, the nape of his neck, his shoulder.

“Not going anywhere.”

“You came back,” he notes sleepily, his voice warm and thick and pleased, even to his own ears.

“For you. Always for you.”

It is the first solid night’s sleep Ianto’s had in months.

* * *

  
Jack hurls himself into the dimly lit, cavernous room and throws his coat onto the nearest available surface as though it carries the plague. The desk upon which it falls is square and metal, colder and more impersonal than even Owen’s autopsy table had been. He longs for his old office, his old desk with its rounded corners and polished surface. He longs for the Hub and its heartbreaking familiarity. He longs for the clanking of pipes, the low murmur of water, the whir of machinery, the confident click-clomp of Gwen’s boots, Ianto’s soft, distracted humming –

“Well?” The voice in the shadows is rough and unfeeling. “Were you able to convince him to seal the rift?”

“Yes. It’s done,” Jack spits as he closes his eyes, covering his face with his hands. “The rift is closed.”

He stops bothering to hold himself up and sinks into the battered cushions of the old sofa. The weight he’s carried on his chest for the past six months grows heavier and squeezes his heart like a winch. He wasn’t certain when it happened, but the gravity of earth seems too strong and begins to crush his bones. He toys absently with edges of an old cigarette burn in the upholstery, his fingers picking at it like a scab.

“Good,” the voice intones. “Very good. I have word that our end has been sealed, as well. We thank you for your service.”

“Hey!” Jack’s eyes fly open, narrow, and he bares his teeth. He grinds his growled words. “We had a deal!”

The voice sighs. “Of course, Captain Harkness. We will transport you as promised. You were given the coordinates, correct?”

“Yes.”

“We need three days to prepare. We will be in touch with the exact hour of departure.”

Jack can hear the thunk of departing footsteps as he closes his eyes. The thought of escaping, of fleeing this planet covered in bone dust, is the only thing shielding him against the pain and the dry taste of ash in his mouth. He stands up, stumbles over to the dented, grimy refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water to wash out the taste.

It is late, well gone two in the morning, and the warehouse is completely silent.

“I didn’t lie,” Jack whispers to the air. “I may have betrayed you, Ianto Jones, but I never lied.”

* * *

  
**Gwen** : You cannot run away.  
 **Jack** : Oh, yes, I can. Just watch me.


End file.
